


Louder Than Words

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Hockenheim, Fernando needs silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Louder Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to _Poker Face_.

He's left the door slightly ajar and the lights off. The curtains are drawn back, letting in the blue-grey smudges of a dying evening. The sun has gone, but its warmth still lingers in the room despite the whirr of the air-conditioning.

Fernando waits in the twilight, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees. His fingers are curled inwards, forming loose fists. It's an effort to straighten them, but he does, one at a time. It gives him something to think about, something other than everything else. The noise in his head is deafening, and he needs silence. Focusing on his fingers, on the smooth sounds of skin over heavy denim, helps mute the chaos.

He stills at the sound of footfalls outside in the corridor. His heartbeat quickens, then he takes a breath to relax himself as the footsteps pass by his room. He stares at his hands then gets up. He looks at the crack of light from the corridor and turns his back on it, drifting towards the window.

Outside, evening is sinking into night. He looks through the window, then at it. The glass reflects indistinct forms. He sees the ghost of himself, a shape of smoke, insubstantial. Behind him, the sliver of light leaking through the door widens enough to admit a shadow before it closes completely. The click of the lock is loud, but not as loud as the sudden, frantic pounding of Fernando's heart.

He remains motionless, staring at the reflection in the window, his vision blurring until the streetlights and headlights and spotlights swim together. He waits, unable to turn around, ignoring the thunder of adrenaline that's urging him to fight or flee.

Footsteps pace towards him, slow and easy. A familiar scent fills his head. His breathing stutters, caught in his throat. Fear and lust hook him, a silver stab of need as sharp as pain arcing from heart to cock to arsehole. His body clenches, anticipating attack, longing for possession. He sways on his feet, locks his knees. His focus snaps back. Fernando sees himself reflected in the window, sees the wet streaks of tears on his face. His weakness infuriates him, and he steps forward to banish his reflection.

A large, rough hand clamps over his mouth. The shock of it jolts through Fernando, makes him pull forward in instinctive response. Excitement kicks in, and he struggles to breathe. The desperation of lust tastes sour on his tongue.

Robert leans close, breath warm on the shivering skin of Fernando's neck. "Hush," Robert says, the word drawn out and sibilant and ripe. "Hush."

Fernando stifles the involuntary whimper that rises to his throat. He can't say anything. He doesn't need to say anything. That's the whole point of this scenario, this arrangement. Fernando has long since stopped trusting the words he speaks. People rarely listen to him anymore, and when they do, no one believes what he says.

It's not words that matter. Actions speak louder than words.

Robert shifts his hand over Fernando's mouth, the flesh of his palm rasping against Fernando's stubble. Fernando wants to bite, to suck, to kiss, but that's not permitted. There's no room for affection here. With affection come tender words and pretty promises, and Fernando can't bear those things, knowing that to speak of them would be to make himself misunderstood.

Robert is not easily impressed. Robert can keep control of his emotions. That's partly why Fernando chose him. Or maybe it was the other way around: Fernando can't be sure, since they've never talked about it. Easier to let their actions dictate terms. Fernando is certain that even in silence he can get the results he needs.

The hand over his mouth presses down, mashes the softness of Fernando's lips against the unforgiving hardness of his teeth. Fernando breathes through his nose, the sound panicked, excited. His tears dam against Robert's fingers, trickle and spread across his cheeks. Fernando tosses his head, resistance and anger firing in his belly.

Robert puts his other hand over the first and tugs Fernando back against him. "Hush," he croons in Fernando's ear.

Fernando's knees buckle. He sags, leans against Robert, head full of violent quiet. After a few seconds, Robert removes his hands. Fernando breathes through his mouth, rapid and feathery. The silence in the room gags him as much as Robert's hands did.

The first time this happened, it was a joke, a reaction to a poker game with Nick and Rubens. Fernando hadn't been in the mood to play, but he'd joined the game anyway, and he'd complained about the chair, his drink, the lighting, everything but the game itself, until Robert fixed him with a gimlet look and said, "If you didn't want to play, you shouldn't have sat down."

The others laughed, jeered good-naturedly.

"I wanted to play," Fernando lied.

Robert smiled, head tilted, eyes dangerous. "Then shut up."

"Make me." The words were out before Fernando could stop them. The thrill of risk curdled into excitement, into desire.

More laughter. Robert sat and watched him, a hawk watching a wildcat, then he stood and sauntered around the table. He unfastened his belt—dark brown leather, black stitching, plain silver buckle—and let it swing from his hands just the once before he snapped it up and looped it around Fernando's head, jamming it between Fernando's teeth.

Instinctively, Fernando bit down. The leather was stiff. He bit into it hard, wanting to damage the belt. His teeth ached with the effort. Saliva flooded his mouth, dribbled onto the rough side of the leather. He wanted to close his eyes, but instead he glared at Robert, too aware of the laughter surrounding him. Summoning hauteur, he spat out the belt and laid his cards on the table. A winning flush.

"You win," said Robert, but his expression suggested otherwise.

Later, Fernando went to his room and found Robert waiting outside, the belt casually tossed over one shoulder. Fernando looked at the impression of his teeth-marks in Robert's belt and felt something shift inside him. Ignoring it was impossible. Fernando swiped his key-card through the lock and went into his room.

Robert followed, one hand on the buckle. "You need this."

Fernando opened his mouth. "I don't. I—"

"You don't need to talk." Robert offered the belt, then, while Fernando looked on helplessly, knowing he was inviting it, Robert pushed the thickness of the leather strap between Fernando's lips, gagging him, forcing him to silence.

The release it brings is exquisite.

This is the fourth time this season. Fernando shouldn't keep track, but he does. He craves the quietness Robert brings. It's profound, this silence. It expands inside his head and spins him round, and now Fernando gasps—but quietly, to preserve the silence; he gasps with his mouth wide open, lips working on nothing, throat tense, tongue pressed tight to the back of his teeth.

Robert slides his hands across Fernando's shoulders. "Hush."

Fernando trembles under the touch. He knows that in another room elsewhere in the hotel, Felipe is unburdening himself to Rob Smedley. Fernando hates that closeness, that intimacy. The idea that Felipe and Rob are talking about him, judging him. The idea that Felipe has someone who understands. That's the thing that flays at him the most. Fernando doesn't have anyone to confide in. Stefano, Andrea, Chris—they'll listen if he wants to talk, but they don't listen to what he's saying beyond the words. They don't care, not the way Rob cares about Felipe.

He wants to rail against it, wants to let his anger and jealousy and insecurity and hopes pour out of him, but he can't say anything, and the gag is a blessing, the silence is his safety net, and now he needs more, the mockery of intimacy, the ritual of sex, the darkness to the light he imagines smothering Felipe and Rob.

Fernando sinks to his knees. Robert goes with him, hands still on his shoulders. The air-conditioning unit clicks, whirrs to a halt. A new silence spreads. Fernando is aware of his breathing, of Robert's breathing, of the soft sounds of their clothes as they kneel together on the carpet. Robert waits a moment, then rubs his hand over Fernando's cock through the denim.

A groan almost breaks free, but Fernando stops it. He's hard, engorged, all sensitivity drained into his cock, and he thrusts up into Robert's hand. The jeans constrict him, the zipper pressing almost painfully into his flesh, but Fernando jerks his hips harder, faster, wanting more than the pain, more than the release. If he can just get behind, go beyond, if he can only find the silence again, he can forget the voices in his head, the endless whirl of chatter, the accusations from the media, the boos in the paddock.

He closes his eyes. His face is wet. His breathing steepens. Fernando fucks Robert's hand, and Robert digs in with his fingers, grinds down with his palm, and it hurts, and Fernando wants to scream, but he can't, he has to be silent, because even if he screams no one will listen, no one will hear him, they can't hear him over the sound of Rob Smedley's slow handclap of a radio message, over the sound of Stefano telephoning Maranello, over the sound of Felipe's rejection after the race.

Ferrari remained silent on Fernando's radio. They didn't tell him about the order to Felipe. Now he needs the silence of punishment, the silence of kindness, and Robert is both tender and cruel. Fernando scratches his fingernails through the pile of the carpet, feels the burn on his skin, the ache in his thighs, the coiled pressure in his balls, the banging of blood through his veins. His jeans are damp, a hungry stink in the air. He reaches for silence, hips working frantically, Robert's hand tight, tighter, grasping, gripping, pulling at his cock, and Fernando arches, head tilting back, shuddering through his mouth, so close—

Robert pulls away. He gets to his feet, movements sharp and controlled, and walks towards the door.

Fernando sucks in a huge gasp of air. He rocks forward, losing his climax, losing everything. The silence retreats, and the pain of its loss tears at him. He twists his fingers through his hair and breathes, struggling for control. He can't speak. He has things to say, so many things, too many things, but he doesn't have permission to vocalise any of them. The anguish of being forced to be silent now is too cruel.

Robert stands by the door. "Speak."

The relief is so great Fernando feels it shake him like orgasm, but sweeter, deeper. Thoughts crumple and twist, and all he can manage is: "Why?"

"You know why." Robert's features are hooded by the darkness. His voice is soft and harsh, a combination that drives Fernando to distraction.

Fernando makes a helpless gesture. His throat hurts from the torrent of words he's held back. "I denied Felipe, so you denied me."

"Not quite." Robert comes closer. A shaft of light through the window falls over his face and lights his eyes as he reaches out and runs gentle fingers over the drying tracks of Fernando's tears. "Actions can be misunderstood."

"Punishment," Fernando says.

Robert shakes his head. "A demonstration."

"Of what?" Fernando edges his voice with steel, with spite; he doesn't want to understand. "Your power over me?"

Robert smiles. "Think about it. When you're ready to admit the answer, we'll talk. Until then..." He lifts his hand, turns about, and goes to the door. He opens it, slips out, and closes it carefully, leaving behind the faintest sliver of light.


End file.
